


songez à vos sœurs

by smithens



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Epistolary, Family, Friendship/Love, Letters, Other, Politics, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-08-30 07:53:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8524900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens
Summary: Early on in his study of medicine, Combeferre briefly visits his hometown in the south of France, where a conflict between his love for his family and his growing involvement with new friends and old politics begins to surface.After his departure, he begins to write to his sister in hopes of maintaining their closeness and appeasing her wishes... only to realize that there are some things which cannot be shared.





	1. Prologue | 1.-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooookay! so. This fills a prompt from a friend of mine who is no longer in the fandom much and whose AO3 I don't know, and also serves as a continuation of something I thought of with AO3 user pelides. 
> 
> And it is an excuse to write more about my family headcanons for Combeferre.
> 
> Note: eventual E/C. :)
> 
> Note 2: title is from Combeferre himself, from a ...certain passage in the novel.
> 
> thank you for reading! ♥

_May, 1827_

“Sylvie, darling, you mustn’t be so upset. It is no use crying over.”

Though the main squabble is finished, Combeferre suspects that its conciliation may need to continue on for longer: Thérèse left the parlor not in tears but in exasperation of having been disturbed from her needlepoint; unfortunately, Sylvie seemed only further affected by that response.

Combeferre has tried to ignore it by staring insistently at his book.

Mathilde in her maternal fashion is behaving as though she has a handle on the situation, and certainly she has dealt with teenage dramatics on Sylvie’s part lately more than he has. (And, indeed – she is now thinking of motherhood, and not only sisterhood, and will someday soon need to raise her own children.)

“Oh, but! but, it is too unfair -”

“Is it so!”

Even still, Combeferre does not wish to see his youngest sister in tears over a matter removed from her control. She is young, sensitive, and perhaps rather spoiled by their parents (and in a way he was never, as a boy), but kindhearted and bright and precocious for all her eccentricities.

He looks back and forth from Sylvie on the floor to Mathilde beside him, keeps his thumb in between the pages of his book – an out of date journal of medicine which he had found in his father’s old desk the day before - and says nothing.

In truth, this was a matter of the fair sex, and one which admittedly he knows little of.

“It is too!” exclaims Sylvie, dropping rather dramatically from her kneeling position to lie sideways on the floor. “Thérèse adores Herbert, she told me she does – if she loves him so much, why doesn’t she marry him instead?”

“Well, Maurice is not to be your husband,” Mathilde says. Though her soft tone gave an air of fond patience, her frown betrays her irritation. “How, then, could the fairness of the matter concern you?”

“Won’t you listen to me? I -”

Her own tears interrupt her once again. Mathilde, in reaction, seems ready to snap, and at that Combeferre finds he cannot refrain any longer:

“Mathilde, you are wrong, Sylvie is right to be distressed by unfairness,” he says sharply. As Sylvie had prostrated herself at the foot of the other sofa, she doesn’t look at him, but Combeferre keeps his gaze fixed upon her anyhow as he goes on. “In addition, matters of courtship concern our sister because there will come a day where she will be courted; plus that, the choices of Thérèse concern her because she cares of her sister’s wellbeing. And if Thérèse is to wed, she will have in effect a new brother.”

Then, a silent pause, but for Sylvie’s sniffling.

And Mathilde understands now in some way, he is sure. Her sudden sigh in response is one which over their years of siblinghood he has become well accustomed to. It means: _you are right, and I do not want you to be_ ; to some extent Combeferre had expected it before he had cut in.

“Is that right, Sylvie?” he says, and Sylvie - in her fashion - provides him with a short whimper of affirmation.

“Come here, darling, I see now,” says Mathilde softly, and when the young girl doesn’t move from the floor, she waits a long moment before sighing pointedly. “Then, I shall go walk outside, and our dear Benjamin will accompany me. You may join us later in the garden if you wish, dear.”

(It is strange to be home, to be called his given name freely, when he had become so accustomed to using the name of his family in Paris.)

Another whimper from their sister, and Mathilde stands even before Combeferre thinks to get up to offer his arm – but she plucks the journal from his lap and taps his shoulder, gracefully stepping around him, and he stands swiftly to go with her.

\- - -

“Now, really, ought you be so active?”

“Isn’t it so that you study medicine, Benjamin! - you advise me.”

“Alas, you are mistaken - for I am no midwife. Those are unneeded on the battlefield, you know.”

Mathilde laughs gaily, steadies herself by firming her grip on his elbow, and together they slow their pace just slightly. They have not walked far or for long, simply up the coach path and around, but Combeferre doesn’t wish to tire her - even though she requests they move more quickly, or be more spontaneous.

The baby, after all, will be her first.

“You are not a midwife at all,” Mathilde says kindly. “For, she suggests I walk briefly each morning! you know, I do oblige her.”

“Let us go more slowly, anyhow.”

She hums in affirmation, and he matches his steps with hers – he’s taller, but not by much. The path, too, is uneven and pebbly; it will be better for her, he thinks, to keep an even pace. As small children they had ran here, scraped and dirtied themselves over and over, until one day they no longer played in such a manner. He had filled his pockets with stones and taken them home to study them, done the same with insects and pinecones and shreds of grass - their mother loathed it, then. (She would surely loathe it now, too, but he lost the habit sometime in his first year of school.)

They are not children anymore.

This Combeferre feels distinctly, and moreso now than during any of his prior visits home.

Mathilde leans against him for but a moment, pressing her cheek to his shoulder and rubbing her hand at his arm before straightening entirely to pull him beneath the shade of a near tree. She stands still, her gaze unreadable.

In a way, looking at her is like peering into a looking glass. Her eyes are still like his, the same brown irises but overall shaped slightly narrower, and her dark lashes are fuller and longer. They share the same broad nose, the same set of mouth, but her cheeks are more round and pink. Even their hair is the same color and texture, though hers is mostly concealed beneath an embroidered white cap.

Days ago he had arrived exhausted, but with one glance understood that she was happy and healthy - a blessing to see in a woman with child - but even days later, he’s certain that no one has had the same impression of him.

“Benjamin,” she says softly, taking his hand in her own, “it is good that you care so for Sylvie.”

And this, he thinks, is likely what she had meant to address in taking him outside - not the weather or her health, as they had spoken of lightly, but his attitude. Certainly, of the conversations he knows he will hold on the matter during his visit home, this will likely not be the most unbearable. Still, he cannot welcome interrogations.

“But you know as well as I, my good brother, that she must come to understand these things. I shan’t say it is right, Thérèse’s choice, but it is her own, and Sylvie must learn that there is more to growing up than learning of one’s self.”

“You married for love.”

It is all he can think to say, with the intent way she looks at him.

And she nods, a hint of a smile at her lips.

“Yes, I am very happy. But not all women are so lucky as I, to love a man before wedding him. She has two suitors, and it is better for a dowry to go to a man who can make good use of it, would you not say?”

That is the way of marriage, Combeferre knows - and it is at times that very conundrum which turns him away from thinking of his prospects further. He would not want to be a woman’s second choice.

(He would not want to be a woman’s choice at all, if honest with himself, but no longer can he say this to Mathilde without repercussions.)

“You do not know courtship, Benjamin,” Mathilde continues. “I wish that you did, but even so you would not know it as I do, or as Thérèse does.”

Combeferre nods.

“You may wish it,” he says, “but there is no time to court in the medical school.”

“Mother says you would have the time, if you better managed your priorities.”

“Mother says a great many things, Tilda.”

She makes a face at the foreign nickname, her nose scrunched and her lips pursed. It almost reminds Combeferre of a face Courfeyrac had made several weeks prior - then he remembers Courfeyrac had been imitating him, and he releases his sister’s hand to take her arm once again and tug her along.

“If I ever court a woman, I promise I shall write to you, so that you may evaluate her from afar.”

“When you do, Benji, you must use utmost detail -”

In return of that, he matches her former expression, and she laughs gaily.

When they return to the house, they find Sylvie in the garden, examining the half-bloomed bud of a flower with wide-eyed curiosity. Seemingly, the quarrel from earlier has been forgotten; Combeferre knows her better than that.

Mathilde, with her feigned endless patience, stays silent and still until Sylvie acknowledges her presence.

Then, for reasons which Combeferre can only attribute to her being a girl with only thirteen years behind her, Sylvie turns and runs back into the house.

He looks at Mathilde from above his eyeglasses with an expression he hopes conveys his sentiment of “you see?” - and she turns her head up before following after their sister.

Combeferre decides, now that he is affected enough by the trials of his sisters that he cannot focus on medicine or on glyphs or on Saint-Simon (all for which he’s found related texts hiding in the house of his parents) that he would like to sit in the garden and think of botany, and so he does. If Sylvie retains her interest in plants and flowers, perhaps he can give her a lesson in the science. That, of course, will come later: for now, he is wont only to relax.

\- - -

Four days later he stands a pace away from the coach that is to take him to the center of town, where he will take his leave for Paris.

“You must write to me often, Benji,” Mathilde says, taking his hand in her own as he moves his valisse to the seat. “Not only about - what we discussed.”

Her husband stands a few further paces away from them, and Combeferre goes to great pains not to look at him.

What they discussed: marriage, and the opera, and his upcoming examinations, and the weather in Paris… and even, briefly, Enjolras, as Combeferre found about halfway through his time away that he couldn’t bear not to speak of his friend. And again and again they spoke of marriage, as Thérèse had taken to ignoring Sylvie entirely on the subject, and she was inquisitive. If he were to send letters, Mathilde would be disappointed, did she expect any more than what he has already told her. Courting young women does not seem a viable way to pass the time, not with lectures to attend and pamphlets to write and things to do and see and visit. Whatever else (and certainly there is much) that he gets up to in Paris ought to be little of his sister’s concern.

Yet, of course, she has cultivated a way of concerning herself with everything - such is the nature of their family.

...At times, Combeferre must wonder if all that he tells himself is a result of nature is not really that at all.

But Mathilde is insistent, and sincere, and so Combeferre obliges her as a brother rather than a student: “I will write, Tilda, of course.”

“Oh, do you swear it?”

“I do.”

In reply, she squeezes his hand and smiles cheerfully as they part. A few years before, they had ceased saying ‘goodbye’ aloud, and the trend continues.  
As he boards the carriage, he sees her touch her hand to her belly, and then she attends to her husband.

Paris will receive him as always, Combeferre knows, and he will make good on his promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (forgive me for calling him Combeferre in the narrative if that is jarring - I thought using the headcanon first name would be even more so.)


	2. 1.1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> at long last chapter 2! :)

_19 june 1827_

_Mademoiselle Mathilde Combeferre,_  
_My dear sister,  
__I beg your forgiveness for writing you with such prolonged delay, but I assure you it is through no fault of my own. Upon my return to Paris I was greeted by_  

* * *

 

_19 june 1827_

_Madame Richaud_

* * *

 

_9 september 1827_

_Mme. Mathilde Ri_

* * *

 

_11 september 1827_

_To my Dearest sister Mathilde,_

_My heartfelt apologies for the extended delay in my writing and may I ask your forgiveness.  I confess it was Father who reminded me I need write to you but I shall provide you foremost with the Details of my livelihood in Paris as you requested upon my departure from home._

_Free though I am now in the city there is unfortunate little time for small pleasures, or that is, not in my own course of study. You must know that in the medical school my peers are highly competitive, and a great deal of time is spent studying for exams and preparing for lectures. What change from the Polytechnique, where all possess great motivation but resent so the isolation which comes with their studies ! No longer am I one of them. And it is so that I have not written to you as I did three years ago upon commencing my studies; indeed, I was but a boy then, where I am less so now. I have been learning, reading, writing; there is little I do not wish to know or discover now that I hold the means and time to do so. They are bold with their praise, here : my professor of surgery has claimed me a prodigy for my precision of hand. It is no small feat to earn commendation, but with this the resentment of one's fellow students will become apparent — and this is less advantageous for one to gain. Each of us wishes for our own success; each of us maintains an air of pretension. It is so that I have made few friends within the school. Those ties seem meant to fray, but we have an understanding. Not all of us will continue to the_ externat _._

_Thus it is in the environs of the medical school where I have chosen to foster my connections. To learn from books alone is insufficient. Paris has revealed herself to me, and so I shall thank her for it appropriately, with exploration, and with Fraternity.  I have met other students, primarily of law. They devote little of their time to it. Unlike your husband. You would not think one could pass the bar in three years, seeing these men. But they and I have chosen a similar path; mine, merely, I choose to accompany with aspirations._

_So you see I have become more social, as you bade. I leave my apartment and attend the opera or browse the markets, and I have succeeded in subscribing to a newsjournal. My companions Accompany me out of doors on occasion. I spoke to you of my familiar Courfeyrac, did I not? He and I have most enjoyed spending our evenings at the theatre. Although young he is quite mature — relative to his peers I do say.  Through conversation I have learned from him but his passion sometimes clouds his reason. Perhaps this maturity is not relative to Enjolras, whose fair and rosy countenance is at odds with his air of Severity. As of late he and I have spent much time with one another : where before we quarrelled over questions of Humanity we now may meet in shared consideration._

_But you must know there are some things a man cannot share even with his twin, in particularly when she is so far. I bade you to visit, Mathilde, when you and the little one may part. Our father wrote to me of your delivery. Is it so wise to delay placement with a Nursemaid? My sister, do think of your health and of hers. However labor exhausted you I do say as one who studies medicine that it would be wise Not to retain your attachment with her for much longer._

_That is my advice — so forth I am joyous for you. So it is that I have a niece ! What good it will be to have another gracious little girl in the family and what an honor it is to be now an Uncle and to call myself so. Father said little of her other than that you have brought her into this world. He said too you did not Christen her at birth and sought to wait. Was it only my imagination that you had settled upon a forename months ago? When your strength is returned and you may write to me I beg you tell me of her looks and her health and what you have decided to call her, for I have confided in my long friend Bahorel and he is curious as to your Creativity. Myself I am curious as to when I shall send parcels for her Name Day in all years to come. Alas ! For I cannot see her now myself. Nevertheless when I visit I shall see the two of you, and our sisters — I trust Sylvie and Thérèse are delighted as well. If the former feels she is deprived of attention in this happy time bade her to write to her dear Brother if you would please._

_But I confess now I do not know when I may visit for my Obligations at the university seem only to become more pressing. I should hope to be present for the wedding at the earliest. For now however I shall maintain focus upon my studies and too upon writing to you as I have promised. Accord Noël my regards._

_I remain as ever your Most Contrite and Loving brother and I bid you good health and cheer as you embark upon the journey of Motherhood._

_Benjamin C._

* * *

Upon replacing his pen in its stand Combeferre takes the corners of the page and begins to fold. With two fingers he bends the paper broadly, then creases it with the side of his thumb against his writing desk. Although the ink seemed dry, he knows now to take precautions against smudging. Mathilde will scold him not only for taking his own time in contacting her, for which criticism is well deserved, but also for his penmanship as always -- were she to receive illegible correspondence due to ink splotches he would surely earn a similarly reproachful response.

When the scrawling loops of his words disappear he loses his care, mindful only that he does not drip sealing wax upon his fingers.

In the morning he will post it, and from there hope only that her reply will bear good news.


End file.
